Grief Laid Aside
by fireweed15
Summary: [USUK] But, Madam, let your grief be laid aside, / And let the fountain of your tears be dry'd – Phillis Wheatley, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (1773)


_One new message – Rosaline, July 31, 2012, 7:34 PM  
I have something I think you should see._

Outgoing message – Alfred, July 31, 2012, 7:39 PM  
What's up? You're normally not this coy, Rosie.

One new message – Rosaline, July 31, 2012, 7:41 PM  
How many times have I told you to not call me Rosie?

Outgoing message – Alfred, July 31, 2012, 7:43 PM  
Stopped counting in 1938 ;)

One new message – Rosaline, July 31, 2012, 7:45 PM  
You great git. Do you want to see this or not?

Outgoing message – Alfred, July 31, 2012, 7:47 PM  
Yeah, lay it on me.

Photo received from Rosaline, July 31, 2012, 7:49 PM

The photo was of paperwork that looked like it came from a doctor's office, a few relevant passages highlighted or marked with Post-It flags, and a plastic stick, proudly displaying two pink lines.

* * *

_One new message – Rosaline, Oct 25, 2012, 4:34 PM  
Something's wrong. I need you over here ASAP_

One new message – Rosaline, Oct 25, 2012, 4:35 PM  
Emphasis on soon

Outgoing message – Alfred, Oct 25, 2012, 4:37 PM  
What's up?

One new message – Rosaline, Oct 25, 2012, 4:39 PM  
Bleeding

Outgoing message – Alfred, Oct 25, 2012, 4:40 PM  
Did you cut yourself?

One new message – Rosaline, Oct 25, 2012, 4:41 PM  
Menstrual bleeding when there ought not be any

Outgoing message – Alfred, Oct 25, 2012, 4:43 PM  
Isnt a little spotting normal?

One new message – Rosaline, Oct 25, 2012, 4:45 PM  
I'M PASSING TISSUE AND AM IN PAIN YOU JACAKASS

Outgoing message – Alfred, Oct 25, 2012, 4:45 PM  
B there n 5min

* * *

America still wasn't sure what had happened exactly. It wasn't for lack of listening, though; he would swear that up and down. It was from a lack of _understanding_. Not understanding suddenly seemed like a common theme in his life in the past month or so, so when England swatted his shoulder at 5:30 in the morning, reminding him that they had a conference to attend at eight, just a few weeks after… After, it was just one more thing he could add to the list.

To his credit, he tried—he tried so damn hard—to not question her decisions. But today, the question just slipped out before his brain to mouth filters could catch it. "Are you sure you want to go to that conference? Under the circumstances, I'm sure one of your brothers—"

The look England gave him (or rather, his reflection as he sat on her bed watching her dress) wasn't quite disparaging, but it was the only descriptor that he could think of. "I can't see a reason why I shouldn't go, nor one why I should bother my brothers."

"Even though you…" America tried to find the words. Damnit, England was so much better at being eloquent on the spot. "We just…" Saying _lost_ or _miscarried_ made him feel like his throat was lined with chalk. "The—"

"I don't see why I should let a little medical thing stop me from performing my duties," she replied coolly, shrugging into a jacket.

America hoped he was able to hide how her almost flippant attitude hurt. "This wasn't a little thing…" he mumbled.

England smiled, the expression faint, before sitting next to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "America, please trust me," she said. "I'm England, remember? Stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on—any of this sound familiar?"

"Yeah," he replied, his arm loosely wrapping itself around her shoulders and giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze, "but remind me?"

"I'm not made of glass," England answered, her voice the epitome of confidence. " I was fighting battles and privateering well before you were discovered." She reached over to straighten America's tie before leaning in and brushing a soft kiss against the tip of his nose. "A conference isn't going to be the end of me."

* * *

In the end, it wasn't the conference that did England in; it was a comment, well meant but poorly timed, during a tea break.

_How far along were you supposed to be?_

America bit the inside of his cheek, wanting to swoop in and deflect the question, change the subject, but it wasn't his conversation to have. Besides which, England would have no doubt gotten on him about his "tendency to play the hero."

All things considered, he noted as he watched her set her teacup aside and quietly excuse herself from the conversation, and then from the room entirely, he would have preferred being gotten on about his tendencies. For several minutes, he kept half an eye on the door, waiting for England to return, to be the picture of poise and grace and all those other fine English adjectives she liked to embody. When she didn't return after fifteen minutes, he promised himself another five; when the another five passed in the same, England-less manner, he gave up on his tea and his conversation and left the hall to find her.

It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be, and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. It cut out a lot of worrying, but he was following quiet little half-cries and sniffles that said a lot more than he could ever hope to describe. Eventually, America did find her sitting on a bench outside an unused conference hall, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks with tissue. He settled onto the seat next to her, and when he spoke, it was soft, as though he was afraid of intruding. "Hey, are you—"

"That—" England dried her eyes and sat up a little straighter. "That was out of line. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" America asked, genuinely surprised.

"I'm a Nation." England twisted the tissue in her hands. "I'm made of sterner stuff than that."

"England—" America started.

"God, what the hell's wrong with me?" She balled the tissue up in her fist.

America sighed deeply, considered his shoes for several moments, before looking at England out of the corner of his eye. "Do you want the truth or do you want me to lie out my ass to make you feel better?"

"I don't need your sass, Alfred Jones," England replied archly.

"I'm being serious," he said, reaching over and laying his hands on hers. "Do you want a truthful answer?"

"Of course," England answered.

"You're not giving yourself time to grieve," America said, his voice soft, almost respectful, but straightforward. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles, the gesture somewhere between soothing and languid. "You want to convince everyone you're tough—and that includes yourself—and it's not working."

England pulled back from America—more specifically, from his suggestion. "I've lost almost twenty-eight thousand soldiers in one battle and gotten over it with little to no grieving at all."

"That's not the same thing," America pointed out quietly.

"Why?" Her voice was starting to rise, almost imperceptibly to anyone who didn't have the ear for it, with emotion. "Those men lost were someone's children, were they not?"

"That's a different kind of grief," America said, thinking briefly of Antietam and the subsequent outpouring of grief. He pushed the thoughts away, took another deep breath, and continued. "Those mothers got to know their child." He reached over and took her hands in his once more. "We didn't get that chance, and no one's going to blame you for grieving for it."

"Was it something I did?" England asked. "Sometimes I feel like if I had—"

"No," he cut off, knowing more or less what was on her mind. "It wasn't anything you did or didn't do."

"Then… _why_?" She laid her head on his shoulder and, for what America could only guess was the first time, started to quietly cry.

"…I don't know," America admitted, loosely wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Maybe she would push him away, maybe not, but wasn't the point to try to make her feel better? That was one of the things he signed on for when he first said _I love you_ in '46?

Ultimately, she didn't push him away, or pull him closer. She remained where she was and took America up on his suggestion to let herself grieve. Though he didn't say anything on the matter, he knew that England knew he was grieving with her.


End file.
